


Empty and Full

by TriplePirouette



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Steve thinks a lot about stuff, Trigger warning for eating issues, implied steggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/pseuds/TriplePirouette
Summary: “Steve Rogers kept his refrigerator stocked with cold, leftover, fast food chicken.” Angsty Steve with emotional eating. Written for the Steggy Bingo Bash prompt “Chicken.”
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Steggy Bingo Bash





	Empty and Full

**Author's Note:**

> **Potential TW for eating disorders/issues.** This def came from a very visceral place for me as I do use food to deal with emotions, so if that is something that may be triggering to you, please skip this. 
> 
> Sorry that the Steggy is minimal… this idea took over for this prompt and there was no letting it go.

Steve Rogers kept his refrigerator stocked with cold, leftover, fast food chicken.

He’d tried it on a whim fairly early after his defrosting, encouraged by Natasha to “get some flavor” in his life after he’d commented on how the food he remembered seemed so bland in comparison to everything he was experiencing in this new time.

He made it through a thigh and breast from a bucket of KFC before tossing a half-eaten drumstick back into the bucket, shoving it in his refrigerator with the paper lid barely pushed in place. It was too spicy, too fatty, and didn’t quite taste like his mom used to make.

He forgot about it for a few days until a nightmare woke him, sweaty and swearing, swinging at shadows as the memories floated behind his eyes. Barely breathing, heart pounding in his chest, he paced through his apartment, needing something to distract him.

He’d opened the refrigerator looking for cold water, but saw the red and white striped bucket first. He pulled it out, eyes trained on the golden edges he could see through the lid. He sat heavily at the kitchen table, thoughts of water abandoned. He lifted the lid, pulled out the half-eaten drumstick, and bit into it.

It wasn’t that the chicken filled him up in some way. He wasn’t hungry and he wasn’t particularly empty feeling.

It wasn’t that it made him feel happy, because it seemed almost nothing really brought true happiness since he’d left Peggy behind as he jumped on the Valkyrie.

It wasn’t even that the chicken was particularly good, because it was over spiced and cold and still too fatty under the skin in some places.

But the peppery fire in his mouth distracted him. It made him focus, brought him to the 21st century where you could buy a bucket of fried chicken for more than some people made in a week back in his old time, and that was chump change here.

It made him remember he was here, now, and that it wasn’t a dream. He’d left everything and everyone behind. Bite after bite, he tried to forget of each and every person he left. Tried to forget her soft brown eyes and bright red smile.

It made him face the fact that everyone thought he’d died, that to them he really had, and if he hadn’t been found, he might have languished for decades to come.

He bit into a thigh, thick with soggy breading, and wondered if this was what hell felt like.

He ate until the bucket was empty and he was scrounging the bottom for the crispy leavings of the batter, hoping for one more spicy moment of…

Penance?

Regret?

Punishment?

He wasn’t sure what this was; if he was forcing himself to eat or eating to ignore all the thoughts swirling in his memory.

No better or worse, just fuller, he washed his hands and went back to bed, the sheets now cold and crisp instead of sweaty and confining.

After the chicken he didn’t dream.

The next morning, his stomach felt greasy and heavy. He wasn’t sure if it was the food itself or if he felt like he should be repentant for his midnight binge. The red and white bucket stared at him from where he’d left it on the table, challenging him, making him face the emotions he felt last night.

He crushed the bucket and stuffed it in the garbage.

It was nearly a month of avoiding fried chicken all together before Clint insisted he try buffalo wings. The morsels were hot and spicy, barely a bite but somehow satisfying, especially when washed down with a cold beer and enjoyed with the camaraderie of the other avengers around the table.

When he woke that night, same as every night before, his eyes were still swimming with images of beastly aliens and crumbling New York streets. He flung himself out of bed, same as every night before, and searched for something that would center him. He bypassed the television and the radio, moved past sketchbooks and journals until he was at his refrigerator.

The wings burned like fire without tempering by dipping sauces and he let the spices distract him, drown out the pain, and didn’t chase them down with beer or milk or water because he needed that sting to center him and even his own body saw to it that the sting only lasted so long. He licked the bones and then his fingers clean, not caring that he was a sloppy mess. He put this head down on his folded hands, taking long, deep breaths and counting how long it took for the burn to die away.

He heard her voice in his head. Herd her scold him in her perfect English accent for overindulging. He imagined it turned to a gentle laugh, then a caress on his cheek, then a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth and a sassy remark about him tasting spicy.

He didn’t want to hear her hitching voice in his memory anymore. Didn’t want to think about leaving her behind, crying over the radio.

He didn’t want to wake up with her voice echoing in his head, her sad, broken tone as she realized what he’d planned to do echoing in his mind. He didn’t want to hear the invitation one more time, or to know that he left her without their dance.

He wiped at his eyes, angry that they watered, and told himself that it was just the leftover hot sauce on his fingers that made the tears pour over his cheeks.

From then on, he sought it out. He didn’t fight it. He tried every restaurant and fast-food joint he could, keeping his refrigerator stocked with spicy, greasy chicken. Popcorn chicken was better than nuggets, and tenders were better than both of those, but the real, true, on-the-bone chicken was the best.

It made dealing with the nightmares easier, focusing only on the way he bit through the cold wings and thighs and not the images that he couldn’t erase from his mind, the pounding of his heart that he couldn’t stop. Focusing on finding all of the meat, on getting each bit of battered skin before discarding clean bones gave him a task to keep his mind from wandering back to haunting memories.

It didn’t stop him from waking up screaming in the middle of the night, it didn’t make the sleep when he went back to bed any more restful, but it made him feel like he was taking charge of it somehow, made him feel better about pulling open the refrigerator and sitting at the table in the darkened kitchen. If he prepared for it somehow, it became part of his routine. If he was ready for it, maybe, one day, it would leave him.

Steve Rogers kept his refrigerator stocked with cold, leftover, fast food chicken. It never lasted long, sometimes disappearing the very day he bought it. Each time he set another cardboard take out box in there, each time he slid another restaurant bag in the drawer, he hoped that in a week or so he’d be forced to throw it away because it was old and he hadn’t needed it.

That day hadn’t come yet.

He still hoped. 


End file.
